


West Coast Time

by nouveaux_jours



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/F, lauraela in monterey, michaela is a mermaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nouveaux_jours/pseuds/nouveaux_jours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michaela convinces Laurel to move with her to Monterey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	West Coast Time

**Author's Note:**

> Background: Set years in the future. After graduating and passing the bar, Laurel and Michaela couldn't stay out of each other's lives. They both stayed in Philly just to keep an eye on Annalise and the others, meeting regularly in early days when they were all still scared. Laurel and Michaela ended up working at the same firm (one of the best in the city, naturally). They fall in love and eventually move in together, since they spend all day together anyway. Eventually, the Sam Keating case has fallen out as much as it ever will, and they agree that it's safe to let Annalise out of their sight. Michaela convinces Laurel to move somewhere she's always wanted to go: Monterey, California.
> 
> Which I have never actually seen, so, shout out to Google Maps for giving me an idea of the landscape.
> 
> On Michaela's interest in physics: I see Michaela as the kind of person who loves learning everything and is generally interested in understanding the universe, and therefore is interested in physics. One of the actors on the show tweeted that she was a pre-med major in undergrad. I see her changing to that after deciding she needed to be a doctor or a lawyer and figuring she could do either with a pre-med degree.

"Remind me why we moved here."

Michaela's entire face was pressed against the steering wheel, so Laurel couldn't actually hear any of the words, but she knew what they were. It was a bit of a game they played, every time Michaela had a breakdown about the direction of her life.

The one rule was that they stayed together until three reasons had been established.

"Michaela. Think."

"I can't think. My brain doesn't work anymore."

"Exactly why you're not driving. And I can't give you the reasons, you have to remember them. Come on, the first one is easy."

But Laurel always tried to make it a little easier. She scooted onto the center console and ran a hand over Michaela's hair, started rubbing slow, soft circles just under her shoulder blades.

"It's exactly a million miles away from Philadelphia," Michaela said.

"Exactly how many?

Michaela pulled herself upright to look at Laurel through eyes sagged with sleeplessness, her expression a heartbreaking mixture of grief and gratitude.

"Exactly 2,276 miles from Annalise's front door to ours."

Laurel grinned. "Damn, I still can't believe you worked that out. You're such a nerd."

"Always know exactly where the past is. That way it can't sneak up on you."

"You should have finished that physics degree."

Michaela sighed, more heavily than she meant to. "And you should have your honorary Ph.D. in psychology by now."

"If I can ever get you to relax, maybe they'll give it to me. Second reason?"

Michaela turned slowly to look out the window, took in the fluffy landscaped trees, the birds swirling over the water, the frighteningly yellow sunlight spilling over everything, leaking through the windows onto their skin. She took her time with this. That was part of it. Dragging it out, everything slowing to a stop until she said them all. Because nothing was really so urgent that it couldn't wait until Michaela knew why. Not anymore.

* * *

 

Laurel had set up her own criminal defense practice in Monterey (which is to say she rented a closet-sized office and represented only clients desperate enough not to care that she had only one chair). But Michaela wasn't interested in forging the sure-to-be-legendary Castillo-Pratt Law Group. Or even the Pratt-Castillo Law Group. Instead, she'd cast about for almost three months, playing paralegal (and marketing chief) to Laurel's burgeoning business, spending whole days at the beach, rewriting her resume five dozen times. She finally took an in-house counsel job at Apple, which took Laurel completely by surprise. It was both alarmingly well-paid and more than an hour's drive from their new home.

Laurel wouldn't have minded so much if Michaela at least seemed excited about the job. She made some noises about "something different" and described the glorious San Jose complex in lavish detail, but it made no difference. Laurel knew defeat when she saw it.

Michaela was giving up, settling into the soft cushion of corporate law. And Laurel had no idea why.

She would have been furious if she wasn't so furiously busy. Losing Michaela's unofficial but invaluable support set her back a lot. Her advertising efforts immediately dwindled to nothing, which was fine, because suddenly she was turning work away. Weekend prepping marathons, so recently a staple of Laurel's method, were crowded out to make room for precious Michaela time. For the first few weeks, that meant providing back rubs every Saturday and therapy every Sunday, but when Michaela adjusted it just got worse. She started bringing work home with her, and Laurel was fighting both their jobs for her attention. Not to mention the beach, which Michaela made time to visit even if it was at 4:30 in the morning.

Laurel stopped going to the beach. Her diet dwindled to the occasional microwave burrito, which, combined with chronic overcaffeination, left her always vaguely sick to her stomach. The blissful first months in Monterey became a languid fantasy that Laurel floated to for two minutes in the shower every other day. Then suddenly it was December, the water in the bay was grey and frigid, and half a year in paradise had vanished in a blip of misery.

* * *

 

"Second reason?"

Michaela got out of the car and made a beeline between two manicured hedges. Laurel said nothing, just followed her at a little distance.

In fifteen minutes they were at the water. It was too early for sunbathers, not that Michaela cared if anyone saw her deliberately discarding her pressed skirt in the sand. She waded out in the briefs and swimshirt she'd taken to wearing in place of bra and panties. Up to her waist in foam, she turned back to Laurel with a radiant smile.

"The ocean!" she called over the surf.

And then she was under.

Laurel has never seen anything so graceful and Michaela swimming at full strength, every muscle in her body tensed with the thrill of crashing through the water. How did she make the flip of her feet look so much like a mermaid's tail? Within minutes she was just a tiny swirl of black hair caught between two waves, making Laurel wonder, every time, if she'd find her way back to shore. When she did come back, it was always with a little reluctance.

Michaela loved water. Laurel didn't even know how much until they moved here. She swam like she'd been born a tadpole. Laurel's body started to flag after ten minutes of ocean swimming, and if she's honest, she's terrified of drowning. But Michaela? She'd get this look, since they moved to Monterey, that meant she could hardly stand to be inside knowing the ocean was less than a mile away, like part of her was always itching to throw herself into its arms.

Something colorful caught her eye, right near the tide. Laurel stooped to dig out a beautiful cockle shell swirled with pink and pale green. This was her activity of choice when she followed Michaela here. The shell collection covered their dresser and bathroom sink. A jar of sea glass stood under the bedside lamp, sending splinters of green light across their bed. She'd spontaneously taken up carving in response to all the interesting driftwood lying around. She hollowed a coffee mug out of a single fat piece. It was hilariously non-round and required regular re-sealing, but it had M + L carved inside a heart on the side, so Michaela used it for everything from wine to water.

Her second project, a picture frame, remained unfinished in the closet.

She was grateful when Michaela swam back after twenty minutes. She had to get ready for a meeting at 9, and they still had one more reason why.

* * *

 

Michaela always woke up first, even on Saturday. Laurel stumbled out of the bedroom to find her already dressed for the beach, reading a brief over a cup of coffee.

She wanted to kiss her. She wanted to fall into her lap, curl up in her arms and spend the rest of the day there.

She sat across from her instead, because she needed a shower, and she needed to get to her office at some point that day. Her head was churning with thoughts of her client, an unstable but wealthy woman named Frida Langdoc. She'd been actively delaying for weeks now. Frida was accused—accurately—of beating the crap out of her ten-year-old daughter. Her son and former victim, now 22, who was suing for guardianship of the girl.

"Want some coffee?" Michaela asked, not quite looking up from her reading.

Laurel reached out and lightly touched the M + L on Michaela's cup, coffee gone cold inside.

Michaela caught her hand, brought it to her lips. "I'll get you a cup."

Laurel watched her move around the little kitchen. She looked good. She was probably fitter than Laurel had ever seen her. Her skin glowed, her muscles flowed with ready energy, and she radiated the calm, collected energy that had always suited her best.

Laurel wasn't exactly keeping up. She'd lost ten pounds she couldn't afford to lose. Her case load had dwindled to one, which she also couldn't afford to lose but had no idea how to win.

"Remember when I made you call in sick your second week at Apple?"

Michaela snorted. "Oh my God. I wanted to kill you."

An image of Michaela's face as it had looked on that day, exhausted with doubt and pleading for reassurance, instantly surfaced in Laurel's mind. "You didn't have the energy," she said.

Michaela set the coffee in front of her. "Oh really? I seem to remember you actually chasing me out to my car to stop me from going."

"Whereupon you realized how right I was. Because you were still wearing sweatpants." Michaela laughed a little, and the exchange was over. Hesitating, Laurel burned her tongue on a swallow of coffee, even though she felt a wave of queasiness rising at the smell. She knew she had about thirty seconds to speak before Michaela was reabsorbed in her reading and she lost her nerve completely.

"I was thinking," she said. "We could at least move to Santa Cruz."

Michaela looked up slowly and just looked at her, like she was trying to see under her skin. Something Laurel had always found unnerving.

"What do you mean at least?"

"It would cut your commute in half. We could probably find something a little cheaper, maybe big enough for me to work out of without—"

"We don't need to worry about money, Laurel," Michaela snapped.

"Okay, but _I_ need to worry about money because you're not my partner."

They both took a moment to wince.

"That… came out wrong."

"I know what you meant." Michaela stood up, abandoning her brief with and "it can wait" flip of her hand. She started moving things around the kitchen, just to do something other than sit and stare at Laurel's face. Which meant there was something she was trying not to say.

Laurel waited.

"You're getting established here. People know you. You have clients."

"I have _a_ client and she's going to prison."

"No, she's not, and you could take more cases if you wanted them."

"Maybe if I still had you finding them for me."

Michaela scoffed. "So the fact that I still get calls on my cell from people who can't get past your answering machine, you don't know what that's about?"

"Fine, if I had time. _Or a partner._ " Laurel stood up, suddenly angry, sloshing coffee onto the table.

Michaela just shrugged. There was a whole list of reasons why for this, too, but they didn't bother hashing them out anymore. Mostly because it always ended in shouting.

"Do you even like your job?"

Michaela closed her eyes. "Laurel, don't."

She didn't.

Instead, she crossed the kitchen and took her hand. She kissed her cheek, and then her neck, arms encircling her waist. She kissed her mouth in the middle of a moan and pressed fiercely against her, hungry for every inch of her, hungry for every moment she could scrounge before their time ran out.

* * *

 

"It's nice having breakfast with you again."

Michaela grinned. "Is it breakfast if you go to bed right afterward?"

Laurel raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not saying it!" Michaela actually clapped her hands over her mouth, and they both devolved into giggles.

"Number three is totally my favorite."

Michaela leaned across the table. "You're totally my favorite," she whispered, so Laurel kissed her, slow and lingering.

* * *

 

"West coast time?"

They were three drinks in at their favorite bar in Philly, fresh from quitting their jobs. Their flight was a week and a half away, and naturally, because Michaela was Michaela, they were still talking about _why_.

The third reason was the most important and the most abstract.

"It's three hours earlier?" Laurel said.

"No. Well, yes. But not that."

On the coast of California, Michaela explained, time was relative and relaxation was mandatory. Something about the way the landscape sprawled, the unholy sweetness of the weather, the raging constancy of the Pacific Ocean made it impossible to rush. Lateness was forgiven. All clocks stretched to accommodate inevitable idleness. This principle, which everyone understood without realizing it, was known as West Coast Time.

"I think you may have made this up," Laurel whispered apologetically.

"Oh, you know more about time than me. Did _you_ major in physics for four semesters in undergrad?"

"You know, I've heard the weed is stronger in California."

"You don't have to believe me for me to be right about this."

"Does this mean we can have margaritas at breakfast?"

"Just wait and see," Michaela said, smiling her most self-satisfied smile. "You'll see."

* * *

 

Laurel rolled over in bed, trying to hide her tears. Of course she started crying after sex like a crazy person. She felt so incredibly unattractive it was impossible. Why did passion have to fade so fast in the face of all her failures?

Michaela's arms wrapped around her waist and squeezed her tight, which only made her sob harder.

"I'm going to lose."

Michaela kissed the back of her neck. "Bet you won't."

"Let's bet, then. If I lose, we move to Santa Cruz."

It sounded less like a joke than Laurel hoped.

Michaela leaned over her to look her in the eye. Laurel turned her face into the pillow. "Are you thinking of throwing this case?"

"Frida Langdoc deserves prison. She deserves to be kicked in the face every day for ten years. And even if I win, by some miracle, what the fuck happens to April?"

Michaela brushed hair and tears out of Laurel's eyes. "It's not your job to care about the kid."

"And that makes it easier?"

A flash of anger crossed Michaela's face, and she looked away. "Of course not. Your job isn't easy."

"Having you would make it easier."

"Laurel, _stop._ " Michaela got out of bed, hunting for her beach clothes on the floor. The sight of her graceful body sloshed a fresh wave of tears through Laurel's chest. She could see her drifting away on a gentle wave, drifting down to the beach and drifting out on the waters of the bay, vanishing forever in an iridescent shimmer of wet scales.

"I want you as my partner," she sobbed.

Michaela dropped her shorts and half-ran to the bed. She wrapped her arms around Laurel's shoulders and lifted her off the pillow. Laurel clutched her fiercely, fingertips digging into handfuls of her back.

"Don't leave me," she whispered.

"I'm your partner," Michaela promised.

After a long moment, when Laurel's shaking had subsided, Michaela tentatively said, "You know, I've started learning programming at work. I could build you a really flashy website."

Laurel pulled "Really? That's amazing. You didn't tell me that."

Michaela shrugged.

"You really like your job, don't you?"

"Yeah."

Laurel stared at her knees. "You don't want to do defense again. Ever."

Michaela sighed. "I'm trying something new. I don't know if it's what I want, but I'm giving it my all. Everything. I'm not just taking a break to dabble in corporate law."

"Oh."

"There's just one thing I really hate about it."

Laurel was ashamed of the hope that welled up in her stomach. "Yeah?"

"Seeing you like this."

Laurel cringed at herself.

"This, what you're going through with this case… I don't want that for myself anymore. The hours have been hard, but I’m learning so much and I'm trying to make a better life for us. This isn't forever. In another year we'll both be working out of our gorgeous beachside house and sailing down to Carmel every Sunday."

Laurel couldn't help but smile, but she still threw her head back and groaned. "But you're an amazing defense attorney.

"So are you, and you don't seem too happy about it."

Hard to argue with that.

But Laurel had to, anyway. "But you're better than me at this. Look at you, you can't even imagine me throwing this case. You—you're barely even bothered by her—"

"Of course it bothers me, do you think I'm a robot?"

"No, but—"

"And no, I can't imagine _ever_ throwing a case, but that doesn't mean I want to throw myself away protecting horrible people just to guild my reputation. I don't care about that bullshit anymore."

Laurel's mouth dropped open just a little.

"I try not to care," Michaela amended guiltily.

"Oh," Laurel said. "West coast time."

"Yeah."

She didn't make it to her shoebox office that day. She didn't call Frida and tell her she was dropping the case, though she seriously thought about it.

She went down to the beach with her favorite person in the world, and paced the shore searching for tiny treasures. She made herself walk slowly, tried to make each step cover exactly the same distance, turning back to watch the tide fill her footsteps with water.

She told herself that if she concentrated hard enough, the shells she found would form a picture of her future. A leucine was the coffee stain slowly multiplying on her desk. A scallop was a mermaid's tail flapping far out in the bay.

* * *

 

"I'll be late," Laurel groaned as Michaela ran her tongue along her jawline.

"They'll forgive you," she whispered, softly kissing her ear.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Michaela said. "And I'm still not saying it."

They dove under the sheets and let the moment engulf them.

 


End file.
